right.
In Seattle, she found a cheap hotel with kitchenettes in the rooms. Every day, she and Guy went apartment hunting. She always picked up a
She phoned Juan at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.
“It’s not a good idea to call me,” he warned her. “They’re looking for you. A private detective has been asking questions around here.”
Hannah talked with an old friend from McNulty’s Tavern, a coworker named Arlette Ivey. “Some guy came by two nights ago, asking about you,” Arlette told her. “He was really obnoxious. He said you’re in some kind of trouble, and we’re all accessories to kidnapping and grand theft if we hold back any information. What’s going on, Hannah?”
“Nothing. It’s all just—a big misunderstanding. I’m all right. But please, Arlette. Don’t tell anyone I called, okay?”
Once Hannah found her two-bedroom apartment at the Del Vista, she and Guy lived like hermits. Except for trips to the park, the supermarket, and video store, she didn’t go anywhere. The only person who even knew her by name was Tish at Emerald City Video. When Hannah’s money started to run out, she went to Tish for a job.
Guy wouldn’t have to worry about money once he was an adult. Among the essentials she’d taken from the house in Green Bay was his real birth certificate. Her son was heir to the Woodleys’ fortune. She’d tell him the truth when he was college age. Until then, he was hers.
As they walked up the steps to the apartment, Hannah watched him struggling with the small bag of paper towels. “You’re doing a great job there, sweetie,” she said. “You’re really helping me out. Such a gentleman.”
“I have to tinkle,” Guy replied.
“Okay, hold on.” Hannah unlocked the door and let him run inside first. He dropped the small bag, then made a beeline to the bathroom.
Hannah hoisted the groceries onto the kitchen counter and began to unload them. Underneath the Oreo cookies, she found a videotape.
“What’s this?” she whispered.
The tape didn’t come in a box or container. It was just a cassette: Tape B of
With a glance toward the bathroom, Hannah went to the VCR and slipped the tape inside. She switched on the TV and turned down the volume.
On the TV screen, Al Pacino and Diane Keaton were acting as godparents at the christening of their nephew. Hannah knew the movie. But she hadn’t anticipated the very next cut: Alex Rocco, playing “Mo Green,” lay seminude on a massage table. Someone approached him. He reached for his glasses to look up at the intruder. Hannah knew the scene now. Cringing, she watched the faceless visitor shoot Mo Green in the eye.
“Mom?”
With a shaky hand, she switched off the TV. Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Guy. She quickly ejected the tape. “Did you flush, and wash your hands?” she asked.
Guy nodded.
Hannah sat down on the floor and motioned him to come to her. She put her arm around Guy, then showed him the tape cassette. “Honey, did you see someone put this in our shopping cart?”
He shrugged and shook his head.
“Did you see it in the cart? Was it in there?”
Guy picked at his nose. “Yeah. But I didn’t touch it.”
She tried to smile, but a tremor crept into her voice. “Was this tape in the cart before Craig came up to talk to us? Think real hard, sweetie. It’s important.”
He winced. “I don’t remember. Are you mad?”
“No, no,” she assured him, kissing his forehead. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine.”
Guy pointed to the cassette in her hand, then touched it. “What is this, Mom?”
“I don’t know, honey,” she whispered. She held him closer. “I don’t know what it is.”
Seven
The young woman stepped out of the taxicab. She wore tight black leather pants and a fuzzy, baby-blue angora sweater. Her chestnut-brown hair was in pigtails tonight. She pulled her folded-up massage table and duffel bag from the backseat. “Think your fucking arm would fall off if you helped me?” she muttered to the cab driver.
The audio probably didn’t pick it up. But he caught the woman on videotape as she threw her money at the driver, then kicked the door shut with her spiked boot. She carried her table and bag to the front door, then rang the bell.
It was Tuesday night at Lester Hall’s house.
He’d been watching Lester—and videotaping him—on and off for the last week. He’d already figured out how to break into Lester’s house. There were several times he could have snuck into the place and quite easily murdered Lester in his sleep. But he needed to wait until tonight.
His video camera captured Lester coming to the door and letting the girl inside. The camera shut off for a minute. The next image was rickety. His hands were a bit shaky from running to the backyard, where he now photographed them through the sliding glass doors of Lester’s recreation room. The woman was setting up her massage table. Lester stood at the bar, fixing them drinks.
One of the neighbors was throwing a party. The music and laughter drowned out what little conversation went on inside between Lester and his masseuse. He handed her a drink, then started to undress. The camera panned to her. She sipped her drink, then pulled the sweater over her head, pried off her boots, and wriggled out of her pants. She’d peeled down to just her thong before Lester even got his pants unzipped. The woman took another hit of her drink, then excused herself and padded toward the bathroom.
Lester Hall started to step out of his pants.
The camera went off.
Tarin Siegel sat naked on the toilet in Lester Hall’s bathroom. For the next ninety minutes, Lester would demand her undivided attention, and that meant no bathroom breaks.
If she had the cash, Tarin would have gladly given Lester her one-hundred-and-twenty-buck fee just so she wouldn’t have to touch his paunchy old body tonight. Lester was Tarin Siegel’s best and worst customer. Every Tuesday night she could count on him. No other client was as steady. He had a nice place, and always fixed her a drink. The fact that he was out of shape and had a couple of weird moles on his back didn’t actually matter to her. She barely noticed the bodies any more—unless the guys were cute and really fit.
But there was nothing cute about Lester. Tarin had learned early on that he didn’t like her talking during the massage part. But when it came time for the big finish, she couldn’t read his mood. Often he wanted verbal encouragement; sometimes not. Nine times out of ten, she’d make the wrong call.
One thing predictable about him was the way he acted afterward: sullen and mean. Once he was finished, he was finished—with her. It was like he couldn’t wait for her to leave. He was such lousy company, she preferred to
